


A Stag Crowned in Sun

by AnnaTaure



Series: The Mummer's Dance [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Not for Targaryen supporters, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, mention of miscarriage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28457391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaTaure/pseuds/AnnaTaure
Summary: Jaime Lannister does not remain sitting on the throne after killing Aerys, greyscale takes one more victim in Dragonstone... and the future of Westeros is led onto another path.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Robert Baratheon/Cersei Lannister, Sansa Stark/Willas Tyrell, Stannis Baratheon/Elia Martell
Series: The Mummer's Dance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2067279
Comments: 74
Kudos: 63





	1. Prologue

Stannis Baratheon hated tourneys. Not the crowds and the joyful atmosphere surrounding those events, no, the realm needed them to bring fresh gold into its economy, but he did not see the point of risking an injury or death (or crippling debts) during fake battles, when there were so many real wars to lead in the Seven Kingdoms against outlaws and bandits, or on their borders to chase pirates from the narrow sea.

Thus he found himself sitting by the lake, his back to Harrenhal and its clamours. The water lapped a few steps ahead, and nearby, some crested grebes were diving to bring fish to their hatchlings. His peace vanished when a woman’s voice called after him: 

“Good afternoon... ser ?” 

“I am not yet a knight,” Stannis replied as he turned around. “And I doubt I will take part in enough tourneys to ever get the title.” 

He was surprised to find his brother betrothed standing just at the edge of the trees. He had not even heard her arrive. Lyanna Stark, his brother’s betrothed. Not very tall, slim and sportive, she was a true daughter of the North with her long dark braid and grey eyes. She was observing him, rocking on her heels, her hands joined behind her back, somewhat hesitant, looking more like a child caught with her hand in a jar of honey than a young lady of the proud Northern nobility. 

“What may I do for you, my lady?” 

“I have questions and your brother proved… rather evasive,” Lady Lyanna replied with a grimace. “May I?” she added, pointing without more ceremony to the stump of a tree near his own perch. 

“Of course. What do you wish to know?” 

“Oh, no secret of state,” the girl assured with a slight smirk. “Only… what does Storm’s End look like? The people living there? And your main bannermen? The sort of things the lord’s wife should know, I think. But Robert is determined to speak about love and poetry before anything else.” 

Robert was determined to believe a lot of things regarding his future wife. Particularly that she was already in love with him, that she would like living among the delicate ornaments usually gifted to highborn girls in the South and that she would never make his life a living hell. This being said, Robert also intended to offer her a horse and give her a tour of the forests surrounding their castle, which would no doubt please her more than a dress or a poem. 

The little he had seen of Lyanna Stark during the previous days caused Stannis to think that Robert would be lucky to keep his manhood when the girl discovered his bastard… if she was already aware of the child, and even if said Robert swore before the Seven to renounce his habits the minute he pronounced his wedding vows. In spite of his rather low opinion on the lord of Storm’s End, Stannis was for once inclined to believe him. 

“Do you know the history of the fortress?” he asked, so he would not think about his brother any more. 

“Naturally! In the North, everybody is convinced that the little boy who came to help Duran build it was no other than our Brandon the Builder,” Lyanna bragged, laughing. “No, tell me how it is like now.” 

He complied readily, though summarily, noting that she only half-listened to him. Poorly raised, on top of everything? 

“Will your brothers participate in the jousts or the melee?” he inquired as politely as he could. 

“Ned does not like making a show of himself. Brandon could, but the wolf’s blood would cause too much trouble for his opponents,” the girl boasted. 

_The wolf’s blood..._ Stannis thought, hiding a snort of disgust. _To be translated as: impulsive and short-sighted who thinks only of his immediate desires and never reflects on the consequences of his actions. And that is the heir to the North... As for Robert, I would not wish to be in his boots, even if he seems sincerely taken with his intended. Particularly since he’s so taken with his intended. _

* * 

At supper on that evening, while Robert narrated his exploits in the melee, Stannis, thinking back to his conversation in the morning, thought that his brother would truly experience a very dull and trying existence with his future wife. At least, if he managed to convince her to marry him, which seemed the least sure thing in the world. She seemed ready to run for her life on the other side of the narrow sea and do as Princess Saera Targaryen, who had spent her long life in Lys. Fine, perhaps she would not become the pride of a pillow house. 

On the following day, Rhaegar Targaryen caused the guests, his wife first among them, and by extension the whole realm, the worst surprise that might have been by crowning Lyanna Stark queen of love and beauty.


	2. Stannis

Stannis Baratheon’s gait still seemed poorly assured as he walked along the endless corridors in the Red Keep. The man was exhausted. The siege of Storm's End, where he was besieged, then of Dragonstone, where he had been the besieger, had left him painfully thinner, unable to find some sleep and his stomach perpetually contracted. By a rest of hunger or by fury, he could not have said, and constantly suffered from it. Two days prior, Robert had treated him like a scumbag before three quarters of the Court, for having allowed Viserys Targaryen and his newborn sister run away to wards the Free Cities. The memory of the humiliation he had suffered painfully twisted his belly anew.

From a certain point of vue, he was almost relieved to have missed the last two Targaryens, after the death in the birthing bed of their mother, Queen Rhaella. Daenerys must have been a few days old at best when Willem Darry had fled Dragonstone with her and Viserys, and the mere idea that the little girl could have ended with her head crushed against a wall as well… Stannis had felt sick when he had learned the fate of Rhaegar’s son and heir, slaughtered by Ser Gregor Clegane. A babe punished for his father and grandfather’s faults… He would have almost thanked the gods – if he had still believed in them – that Jaime Lannister had remembered his knightly vows right in time to save the lives of Princess Elia and her daughter Rhaenys, getting rid of one of his father’s bannermen in the process, before the man could murder one or both the princesses. Both mother and child were for now detained in small rooms in the Red Keep, under a watchful guard. 

* * 

He wondered what Robert might want with him, now that the war had completely ended. Somehow, the younger Baratheon suspected he had not been summoned to receive a reward. 

Raised voices coming from Robert’s chambers stopped him on his tracks. His brother’s bouts of anger were like a fire, that fell back to embers as quickly as it had grown – except when it came to Targaryens - but Stannis did not wish to witness it. Robert could throw things across a room, and furthermore it was deeply embarrassing to see his elder brother and lord act so sloppy. It was not decent for a commoner, even less for a king. 

A door slammed and Stannis heard Robert’s voice grow further while shouting curses. Prudently, he resumed his walk and reached the doors to the royal apartments. 

It was Jaime Lannister who had been supposed to stand guard, but the young man had left his posting to enter into the deserted rooms. Stannis found him kneeling before a young, dark-haired woman who was crying in anger and frustration, her head in her hands, sitting on the carpet in the antechamber. 

“My lady,” Jaime whispered, holding a square of linen for the woman to take, “do not lose faith nor courage. In those conditions, it is even fortunate that…” 

“That he does not want to keep me as a prisoner here?” cried the lady he was trying to comfort, furiously waving her arms. “Don’t I know that!” 

Aghast, Stannis recognized Elia Martell of Dorne. Her long black braids were tangled and undone, her dress crumpled, her eyes swollen, and a red mark spread on her left cheek. Horribly embarrassed, he was ready to leave the place when she noticed him. 

“Ah... my lord... Apologies for this pitiful spectacle.” 

Her voice had taken an unpleasant bite. Jaime helped her to get up, and once he ensured she could stand on her own, bowed and walked out to resume his watch. Elia observed his exit with the hint of a smile. 

“Regarding kingslaying, only the first time costs anything, I fear…” she commented as she felt her cheek cautiously. 

She hissed as her fingers brushed her cheekbone. Stannis awkwardly took the handkerchief from her hand and went to the small pewter basin and pitcher allowing the visitors to wash their hands. He poured some cold water on the cloth and gave it back to Elia, who dabbed at her cheek, her tears suddenly dried up. 

“What happened?” Stannis asked at last. “It does not concern me,” he added hastily at her glare, “but I would like to understand.” 

Elia turned to face the wall and hesitated before replying. 

_It does not make sense. Elia and her daughter are our only guaranty that Dorne will keep quiet. It is in his interest to keep them in good health. And anyway, who could think it is clever to hit so a small woman?_

“My brothers wish to see me back in Dorne, and yours would rather keep me here,” she finally answered. “As a hostage, without possibility to communicate for now, not even by letters that his own men would check. He considered Doran’s requests as out of line and I was silly enough to say that keeping me locked up with my daughter would not resurrect Lyanna Stark.” 

Stannis listened in silence. He knew how to listen, when it was needed. He also knew that his brother’s obsession for the Stark girl had not disappeared with the lady’s death. A fever that had taken and killed her in two weeks, Eddard Stark had told them, trusting the story given by the one servant he had found with his dying sister. 

“He will marry Cersei Lannister soon,” Stannis said. “It should divert his attention for a while, and when he thinks about it again, he will have mellowed.” 

“Cersei hates me,” Elia countered. “The feeling is mutual, by the way. She has been after my place for so long… and now she is almost there.” 

She shrugged and arranged her hair, standing before a dusty mirror. 

“Thank you for your assistance, my lord. They will not be many to act as kindly as you did.” 

She offered him a gracious curtsey that he returned stiffly, and vanished in the corridor. Then he heard Jaime Lannister’s voice. 

“May I walk you back, my lady?” 

“Thank you, ser. I will find my way back to my room.” 

Stannis got ready to leave as well, but on threshold, Jaime shook his head. 

“His Grace will come back soon enough,” the young Kinsguard told him. “And you will know what he wants from you.” 

After almost a year of service, Jaime could read his new monarch well, as Robert indeed came back after a few moments spent the gods knew where, reasonably calm but his face still showing rather disquieting shades of red. He raised his eyes right before stumbling into his brother, and for a second he did not seem to remember why he had summoned him. 

“Ah, yes... I have news for you. Reward for your good service.” 

Robert sat behind the massive table of blackened oak that he used as his desk. There were few papers on it, and no drawers either. Stannis suspected that most of the requests and drafts for new laws were piling before Jon Arryn. His charge as Hand of the King would not be a restful one for the Lord of the Vale, if only because Robert might be gifted for war, but absolutely not for administration. 

“You conquered Dragonstone... it is yours. I need a good commander to hold that place, the seat of those bloody Targaryens,” Robert added while pouring a golden vintage from a crystal flagon into a pair of silver cups. 

He pushed one towards Stannis, who took it by politeness only, and carefully touched it to his lips. The Arbor, given the colour, he thought. Directly taken from Aerys’ cellars, no doubt. Or withdrawn from Lord Redwyne’s as compensation for “war damages”. He took some time to swallow the wine, so he could think of his reply. 

“It is not a small thing,” he admitted at last. “Ruling Dragonstone and Storm's End at the same time will give me a lot of work to administrate them both properly.” 

Robert arched an eyebrow and raised his hand to his mouth to hide a laugh. 

“Storm's End ? Who talked about Storm's End?” 

“You are the king, Stannis replied while trying to remain calm. _What is Robert’s game?_ I am the eldest of your brothers, so according to the laws of the kingdom, I am -” 

“No, Robert cut him, still smiling. I cannot properly rob our younger brother, can I? Storm's End will go to Renly.” 

“But he is only a child!” Stannis protested. “He is barely six, cannot get dressed without a servant, and you wish to grant him such a major stronghold, with the income and all the lords bannermen tied to it, while I only receive a smoking rock in the narrow sea? Is this the reward for all the efforts I gave for you?” 

“Oh, there will be a reward you will like much more. Or maybe not, knowing your lack of interest for women. As a lord, you must have heirs. You will thus get married, dear brother.” 

Stannis gritted his teeth until they ground. What had he done to deserve another public shaming? He had almost died for his brother’s cause after a poor strategic decision, eaten away by exhaustion, tortured by hunger for months before help came, and then again, from a good-hearted smuggler and not a knight. What kind of horse would Robert have found for him? 

“She will be highborn, of course,” Robert carried on. “I think about someone from the Reach, so we can tighten a bit our ties with people who supported the Targaryens so well, and to remind the Tyrells their place. Noble girls are not a rarity in that province. Their infamous Garth Green Hand left productive loins and wombs to his whole lineage!” 

A damp and gloomy fortress commanding barely a dozen of small bannermen on a mostly barren island, and now a marriage that would be the laughing stock of at least the whole capitol? A punishment for letting Viserys and little Daenerys go, no doubt. _I will not slaughter my own family. Robert seems to have forgotten already that we are the blood of the dragon too._

“Another thing,” Robert went one after chuckling at his own joke. “You will take the Dornishwoman and her daughter with you, and you will make sure they will not escape from Dragonstone. That should not be too hard for you, I hope?” 

Stannis bowed stiffly. 

“I am at your service, Your Grace. By your leave…” 

And without waiting for said leave, he turned and exited the room. 

The gods only knew where the temptation of kingslaying had come from for Jaime Lannister, though Stannis had a few hypothesis in mind, but in this time, he felt a growing urge to catch Robert by the neck and squeeze as hard as he could. To make him a gaoler for a little girl and a widow… it was degrading, humiliating… to order him to imprison the only woman for whom he would have gladly submitted…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> English is not my first language, so apologies for any mistake you could find. Auto-correct and online dictionaries only go so far.


	3. Jaime, Stannis

_Never seen two weddings starting so poorly_ , Jaime Lannister thought while casting a blasé glance over the colourful crowd of courtiers gathered in the Great Sept of Baelor.

On that day « blessed by the gods », the High Septon was ready to celebrate the union of Robert Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, king of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, with Cersei of House Lannister, then the same ceremony for Stannis Baratheon, the new Lord of Dragonstone, with Lady Selyse Florent. The girl like the stronghold were supposed to be insults for Stannis’s prickly honour, yet the man did not seem particularly crossed, according to courtiers who had recently seen him. No doubt he had learned to hide all the unpleasant things he might think about Robert’s actions along the years. 

On the other side of the altar stood Ser Barristan Selmy. Lined up against one of the sept walls were the five other members of the Guard, all freshly raised to that dignity since Ned Stark and the Trident had made such a large dent among the seven. Three of this new men were Lannister creatures. _One cannot be too careful_ , Jaime thought. His father had made sure their interests would be well guarded and served, as a queen alone would not be enough as long as Cersei would not have given Robert at least one son. 

Jaime turned his gaze on the lords and ladies before him. Within the first rows he caught a glance of the Tyrells, dressed in green velvets and silks embroidered in gold thread, giving somewhat the impression of a bushy hedge planted in the middle of the sept. The old Lady Olenna, Lord Mace – who did not seem truly at ease – then Lady Alerie, her waist round and wide with a third child, and the first-born son of the House, Willas, a boy of ten, remarkably quiet. Mace Tyrell had packed the boy off to his maternal family in Oldtown two years prior, but he had probably thought (or someone had done it for him) that the absence of his heir to such an important ceremony might attract attention. One of Lord Mace’s sisters, Lady Janna, had been considered for a while as a spouse for Stannis Baratheon but rumour said that they had both refused in complete agreement with each other, without leaving any bitterness between them. True enough, having for good-brother the man who had tried to starve him as well as his younger brother, all his household and his garrison would make for an awkward situation… _At least Janna Tyrell has teats and looks like a woman. Everybody says that Selyse Florent is flat as a board and looks like an old horse, hairs on her chin included. Pah, I would almost pity Stannis. Or perhaps a hint of beard does not bother him…_

On the other side of the main aisle stood the Starks and their bannermen, Lady Catelyn with her young son in her arms, then Benjen Stark clad in black from head to toe (it was said that he intended to join the Night’s Watch), Roose Bolton, the Manderlys father and sons, Lady Maege Mormont along with her lord and brother Lord Jeor and his heir Jorah, Rickard Karstark... 

Another glance embraced the Lannisters, seated nearest to the High Septon: Uncles Kevan and Tygett, their wives, the numerous cousins... all dressed in shades of red and rich fabrics, silks and satins, velvets and brocades… Even Tyrion was here, half hidden behind their aunt Genna’s skirts. He waived a discreet salute to Jaime, who replied with a nod, while refraining from smiling indulgently. 

A blaze of trumpets rang out, cutting short all the conversations whispered through the sept. Everybody turned towards the great doors to watch the king’s entrance. 

Robert Baratheon cut an impressive figure, six feet tall, broad-shouldered, heavily muscled and, for the occasion, entirely clad in cloth-of-gold and black velvet, a brand new sword hanging on his hip by an ornate belt studded with jet. A cloak lined with sable that a man of a lesser stature would have been hard-pressed to wear streamed from his shoulders and shimmered with every step under the coloured light falling from the stain-glass windows. The king stopped a few steps from the High Septon, who nodded to the Lannister pride. 

Jaime felt his breath lock in his throat and he made a conscious effort to remain still and show no emotion. _Gods, she is so beautiful…_

At their father’s arm, Cersei was a true vision. Wrapped in emerald silk, her throat framed by her long golden locks and a pricey lace from Myr, she truly looked like a dream come true. She wore around her neck one of the wedding gifts offered by the House to its beloved daughter: a heavy carved emerald pendant set in a gold chain made of intertwined metal braids, while a matching tiara adorned her head. 

Jaime did his best to think of something else while his sister and Robert recited their vows, remembering his first tourney and all the idiocies he did with Addam Marbrand when they were children. 

He only shook himself as the newlyweds exchanged their first kiss. 

_You feeble-minded ass_ , Jaime thought scornfully. _I fucked your bride this very morning._

The High Septon’s assistants swung their censers while the crowd launched into a hymn of grace – at least, those who worshipped the Seven - and Jaime blinked furiously when the stinging smoke reached his face. He twisted his nose so he would not sneeze. If it happened, no doubt that an idiot would see it as a bad omen, and Cersei would gouge his eyes out for spoiling her ceremony. 

The royal couple knelt to receive one last prayer of blessing, then stood again and turned towards the courtiers, who hailed their new rulers in a more or less sincere way. People like Tyrell, Redwyne, Tarly and a few others looked particularly sour-faced. They had supported the old dynasty until the bitter end and saw the Baratheons taking the throne as a complete loss. The rebels’ victory had hung on such small things… The blow of a warhammer rather than a sword, and Rhaegar Targaryen was lying dead on the ford of the Trident. Jaime slightly shook his head. _It was the wrong man who came back from that battle. The wrong king._

Hand in hand – _So touching_ \- Robert and Cersei walked to the thrones prepared for them on a dais, and the High Septon called for Stannis Baratheon and Lady Selyse Florent to stand together under the eyes of the gods. 

The least you could say was they did not present as well as the new royal spouses. 

One could have believed that the second couple had decided to do their best to take the opposite stand to the first. Stannis wore the Baratheon colours as well, but he had mainly favoured black and barely a touch of golden thread marked his collar and sleeves, while his wife had a meagre pattern of blue flowers on her white dress. His serious face seemed more appropriate for a funeral than a wedding, but when one saw his betrothed’s features, that grumpy expression could be understood easily, Jaime estimated. He would have run away to become a septon if his lord father had tried to marry him to Selyse Florent. Of all the girls in her House, she was probably the ugliest and the least friendly. From what Jaime knew, her family had raised her in the strict precepts of the Faith, with the prospect of making her a septa. It did not herald for a pleasant and lively wedding night, since Stannis certainly did not have the reputation of a ladies’ man. He held back a not so respectful snigger and allowed his mind to wander far from the horribly long ceremony taking place before him. He came back to the real world to the sound of small bells announcing that the spouses had at last said their vows. Once more the High Septon waved his censer, and Stannis bent stiffly to kiss his wife. Jaime cast a quick glance towards Robert, but the king was far too busy staring hungrily at Cersei to mind what happened to his brother. 

* * 

The feast that followed the ceremony and the parade of the royal couple in the streets of the capitol were up to the importance of the event, and Jaime vaguely wondered for how much of all those extravagances the gold of the Rock had paid. Fourteen courses, still, each pair of dishes introducing one of the Seven Kingdoms. Trout and crayfish from the Riverlands, venison from the North, fruits of the Reach, fiery spices of Dorne, bread filled with chopped nuts, golden vintages from the Arbor, meat or cheese pies, creamy mushroom soups… the Kingsguard would have to wait for the end of the revelries to at last sit and eat something. Watching the king eat was not any more appetizing with Robert Baratheon than with Aerys II Targaryen, Jaime thought. One nibbled and picked at food from the tip of his fingers and overgrown nails, refused almost everything for fear of being poisoned, the other wolfed everything down. He lost himself once more in the contemplation of the ceiling, waiting for the feast to end. 

Robert’s sonorous voice brought him back to the real world. 

"It is time for the bedding!" he roared. 

Jaime saw his sister’s face change colour. He jumped in to try and bar the rush of courtiers scrambling to take off a shoe, a ribbon or a piece of dress. Robert did not put on such airs and allowed the ladies all the liberties they wished on his person. It allowed the other « happy couple » to disappear more discreetly, even though whistles and poorly thought jokes flew towards Stannis Baratheon and his wide-eared wife. In spite of his efforts, Jaime saw one of Cersei’s court shoes fall, then part of the lace flounces decorating the hem of her dress. Then he lost her in the crowd and Ser Barristan Selmy, made Commander of the Kingsguard after receiving a pardon from Robert, signalled him it was time to end his service for the night. 

“Be at peace, ser. I will keep an eye out for your sister’s safety.” 

Not wishing to have words with the model of all knights, Jaime nodded. 

Afterwards everyone began to leave for their own rooms and while walking back to the Tower of the White Sword, he caught a glance of what looked like an argument between the Starks. He was too far away to hear what Lady Catelyn was telling her husband, but from her wide gestures, she was obviously exasperated. 

_I wonder what annoys her most right now: being in King’s Landing with people the Tullys despise almost openly, finding herself at the place where her betrothed was killed, or the bastard that our good Ned left at home… At least she is not fully a block of ice._

Jaime forgot all about this little game to find the relative comfort of his room and most of all, the silence in the tower. According to the local rumours, Jon Arryn had already rolled his eyes at the expenses generated by that feast and the various jugglers and singers that His Grace had asked into his castle, but it was mostly the noise they generated that Jaime found insufferable. He barely refrained from slamming the door, unwilling to attract the attention of the few servants who still worked here and there in spite of the late hour. 

* * 

Three hours later, it had not been the disaster he had expected, but still far from the saccharine songs in fashion at Court. No doubt because those silly singers only used sweet, sugar-coated metaphors without lingering on the more material aspect of the problem – since for Stannis, the matter was above anything a problem to solve, just like building a ship or besieging a citadel. At least his wife had not wept nor tried to run away… She did her duty, just as he did. Selyse was not at fault if he dreamt of an unreachable star. 

Stannis picked his cloak on a chair in the antechamber and wrapped in it before going down the stairs into the gardens to find some fresh air. 

Davos was waiting for him in one of the small cloistered courtyards at the foot of the tower. When he saw his liege arrive, he got up from the stone bench where he was sitting. 

“So... ?” he risked. 

“It was... acceptable,” Stannis admitted. “But I suspect she might be afraid of me.” 

Davos shook his head. When it came to women, or feelings, his lord was more naive than a novice of the Faith. 

“Enough talk about weddings,” Stannis went on, “we have plans to make in order to reorganize Dragonstone so to settle my wife as well as Princess Elia and her daughter there. I expect you in my rooms at… the third hour of the day. It will give us some time to sleep. I will have breakfast served in my solar.” 

“As you say, my lord. I wish you a good night.” 

“To you as well, ser.” 

Stannis took a slow tour of the terraced gardens, sitting for a moment to enjoy the light wind coming from the bay. The thought would have never come to him when he was still a child, studying under the direction of Maester Cressen, but he liked living at sea, the consideration to give a ship. He had rebuilt part of the royal fleet, but long years of work were still ahead for him before the Iron Throne could line enough vessels again. And they would have to consider something that was not galleys. Those ships were appropriate for relatively closed areas like the narrow sea or the numerous passes between the islands off the western coast of Westeros, but not for long travels on open sea. A trip to Braavos would doubtlessly be needed, to study the different types of ships they produced and the local methods of building. 

But everything at the right time. First he had to take his functions on Dragonstone and receive his new vassals’ oaths of fealty. He entertained no delusion regarding the sincerity of said oaths. Velaryon, Sunglass, Bar Emmon and all the others remained ardent supporters of House Targaryen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An idea of casting for this fic, though I still don't know who could be Rhaenys...
> 
> Roslin : Jessica De Gouw  
> Asha : Nora von Waldstaetten  
> Willas : Peter Stebbings  
> Renly : Kavan Smith  
> Kevan : Tobin Bell  
> Euron : Alan van Sprang  
> Aeron : Madds Mikkelsen  
> Qhorin : John Bach  
> Medalion Rahimi : Arianne Martell  
> Golshifteh Farahani : Elia Martell  
> Mariya Andreeva : Lyanna Stark


	4. Cressen

Those last few days had been more than busy. The maester had sailed ahead of his lord on Dragonstone to properly prepare his arrival. The fortress was thankfully not devoid of supplies nor furniture, since it had been used as a residence for Queen Rhaella during several months. But so many things remained to be done… He had to organize several teams of servants, have the lord and lady’s chambers aired, put the kitchens to work again, have the courtyards cleaned up… And of course, eliminate any trace of the late Targaryen queen’s stay. The red and black banners and blazons had already vanished, and Rhaella’s personal possessions were under lock in the office Cressen had taken for himself under the rookery where the ravens rattled and nested. As long as Stannis would not decide what to do with those bibelots, the maester would rather protect them from the servants and soldiers’ greed. He also had all the cellars aired, and bowls of grey salt put in all the rooms to take a bit of the dampness away. The gigantic black stone castle was not only gloomy, but also unsanitary, according to his own criteria. Small wonder that the unfortunate Rhaella had died at the end of her pregnancy…

Another unexpected task, Cressen had to properly installer Princess Elia and her daughter without having them look detained against their will, or accommodated in an isolated sector. 

The conditions for their installation on Dragonstone were, if one could risk a pun in poor taste, draconian. It was now strictly forbidden for the princess to set foot in Dorne. She could eventually be admitted in the capitol, but not more than once a year. As for Rhaenys, she could not travel nor in Dorne nor in King’s Landing nor in the Crown Lands. This being said, nothing prevented Elia’s brothers from coming on the fortress island for a visit nor from exchanging mail, thought their letters would be submitted to scrutiny. The old maester did not like the situation any more than his lord, but the king’s orders were clear, and most strict. When it came to the Targaryens or their relations, Robert did not tolerate any objection, forgetting when it suited him that his brothers and himself had a princess of the former royal House for a grandmother. 

The servants were certainly surprised when Cressen announced the return of the princesses on their island, but not displeased. The news even gave them an increase in zeal and likely, never since the arrival of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters had the great basalt corridors been so gleaming and clean. Fresh sheets were carried in the rooms chosen for Elia’s stay with daughter, and a kind soul added some colourful tapestries to warm the black stone walls a bit. 

* * 

As was proper, Cressen was standing on the pier when the ship bringing the new Lord of Dragonstone, his wife and his ‘guests’ dropped anchor in the harbour under the castle. Instead of one of the royal galleys, Stannis had boarded a ship of small tonnage but rigged with wide sails in order to make the crossing more quickly, no doubt on Ser Davos’ advice. 

The ship was promptly moored when it reached the pier and a gangplank lowered to allow the passengers to disembark. Stannis appeared first, turning to offer a hand to Lady Selyse, who did not seem so pleased when she discovered her new domain. Davos came behind them, escorting the princesses, then a few servants carrying luggage. Cressen stepped forward to greet his lord. The Citadel would certainly not like nor easily accept that he had left the charge he had been given in Storm’s End, but he had decided that Stannis Baratheon needed his services far more than Renly. It was not the youngest Baratheon sibling who took possession of a hostile fief, after all. 

“My lord, my lady,” he said, bowing with a smile, “allow me to welcome you to Dragonstone. I do hope you made safe travel.” 

“It was correct,” Stannis replied a tad curtly. “The wind served us well.” 

Davos winked to the maester in passing, Selyse saluted him with a nod and the princesses considered him with open curiosity. 

“My ladies,” he greeted them. 

“Cressen is the maester for this castle,” Stannis explained. “You can fully trust him; the Baratheons have been doing so for three generations now, and never fared any worse for it.” 

Given her expression, Rhaenys was certainly thinking that Cressen looked bloody old, but he did not take it to heart. For a nearly five years old child, the whole world probably looked old. 

_May she grow white hair in her time as well…_

With a reassuring smile for the child, Cressen bowed again and invited Stannis and his retinue to walk up to the castle with him. He noticed that the princesses did not seem in a hurry to reclaim their former home. Truth be told, Dragonstone was not welcoming at all, and the multiple sculptures of dragons scattered all over the building did not help one find an easy sleep. 

“Your old apartments are ready to host you,” he told Princess Elia. “I made sure they were heated and scrubbed clean. We also managed to find some of Princess Rhaenys’ old toys, so she will not grow bored. 

"I thank you for your attentions, maester.” 

Then she tightened les pans of her cloak around her shoulders and, holding her daughter by the hand, quickly walked along the pier towards the basalt-covered roadway leading up towards the black castle crowning this part of the island. Cressen had to lengthen his stride to catch up with his lord and the ladies. He was truly growing too old for that… 

* * 

A few days passed by in somewhat of a mess while the new masters of Dragonstone settled in their chambers and explored their domain. Selyse asked the septon to bless the place – nothing better after all the blood that had been spilled there – and was quite proud to now be able to pray in the very sept where Aegon the Conqueror had spent his last night of vigil before he launched his conquest of the Seven Kingdoms. Though not interested in the beauties of the Faith, Stannis had to admit the sept did not lack for grace and elegance. The statues of the Seven might not have been the most beautiful in Westeros – the ones in Baelor’s certainly deserving that prize – but these ones had been cherished, regularly cleaned, painted, decorated, and their historic value remained peerless. 

There at least he did not meet any unfriendly face. The servants obeyed without a word, but one did not need to be a maester to understand they did not like their new lords. And let’s not even talk about the Houses pledged to Dragonstone. Velaryon, Celtigar and the others looked down upon the Baratheons with all the disgust that defeated foes certain of their rights could feel. Stannis did not tell them aloud what he thought about them – even he knew how to keep his least flattering ideas behind his teeth when needed – but men who bent the knee to a murdering, barking insane monarch, as well as a prince without honour, were not worth much in his eyes. 

For the time being, he spent most of his time locked up with Cressen à revoir the ledgers for the island and its vassal lands, while Selyse practised at managing the household staff, with Elia’s discreet advice as a crutch. One of the princess’ first tasks was to put back in their place the servants coming to her to get their orders rather than to Selyse. 

* * 

Several months passed, which saw the vassal lords parading one after the other in the great hall of Dragonstone to swear allegiance to their lord, and to Cressen’s relief, the ceremonies occurred without incidents nor insults. But their faces remained cold and their words, not exactly dripping with sincerity. The birth of an heir might change the situation, the lords’ wives getting enticed by a more familial atmosphere. 

Thus Selyse patted her belly with a smile on her thin lips. The satisfaction of doing her duty before the queen most certainly played in her pride. Seeing the other woman in such a good mood, Elia dared offer some advice that was well received, due to her experience with pregnancy and childbirth. 

Alas, in vain. 

Barely four moons after she conceived, Lady Selyse was screaming for the maester to come in her rooms and all of Cressen’s knowledge could not prevent her from losing her child in a scarlet pool. Stannis ground his teeth but said nothing. If he let grief take over for a time, he did not show it in public. He did not berate Selyse, quite the opposite, ordering Cressen to do everything he could so that she recovered easily. Rhaenys was kept away from the tragedy but she noticed nonetheless that her mother was spending much more time with Lady Selyse than usual and she cried when she understood that she would not have any new playmate to share her games in the citadel.


	5. Selyse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here is a new POV - I do hope I got the character right.

Eight months later, Robert had the birth of his firstborn son and heir announced with great clamour across the whole kingdom. Naturally, the heads of the Great Houses and other important lords were invited, not to say summoned, in King’s Landing to witness the naming ceremony that would take place at the Great Sept of Baelor. Stannis was also requested to bring his wife with him. Two days at sea would be enough for them to reach the capitol. For a moment he thought to invite Davos, then considered that Court would certainly not give his right hand a warm welcome, and he left him to enjoy his little manor on Cape Wrath with his wife and sons. Selyse still held a few preventions against the former smuggler, who never hid from his past as an outlaw, but to drag him at Court would not have be kind to him at all.

“You had never visited King’s Landing before the war, had you?” Stannis inquired during their first evening on board, the ship gently rolling under their feet. 

“Never. Us Florents held little importance in Aerys’ opinion. And yourself?” 

“Just twice. Among other things, I came along with my father when I was… eight, I think. We witnessed an audience in the great hall and I was firmly convinced that the man seating on the Iron Throne was the king. It was, in fact, Tywin Lannister. It had been quite easy to mistake him for the true monarch. He sat there as if the throne had been made for him. Luckily for us, Aerys never heard about my… mistake. The castle and the city have lost much of their lustre, since then. It is a pity that you did not know them before the war. The presence of Queen Rhaella could somewhat sweeten… all the rest.” 

“Do you regret her death?” 

Selyse was more perceptive than many would have imagined. 

“I do not know what Robert would have ordered for her,” he admitted. “Perhaps he would have entrusted her to her old flame Bonifer Hasty. This being said, knowing that she had managed to give birth to a living girl in spite of her age, likely he would have not risked seeing other, half-Targaryen children being brought into this world during his reign.” 

His wife nodded sagely. The maternal line might be legally barred from accessing the throne, but beggars could not be choosers, and the legitimists would have found a way around the law. 

“No doubt that he would have thought more prudent to make her a septa,” Stannis added. 

Selyse rolled her eyes as he looked elsewhere. Some of her relatives had suggested that option for herself, a few years prior, convinced as they were that no lord, not even a third son, would want her stern figure in his home. 

* * 

They reached the capitol on the following day, near the end of the morning, right before the midday bells began to ring. Walking down the gangplank, Stannis wrinkled his nose when he smelled the stench of King’s Landing and Selyse put a perfumed handkerchief under her nostrils in haste. Her lord husband would have to suggest his kingly brother to send teams to clean up the streets, if only to avoid an epidemic. Worse, the city had not completely recovered from the attack and sack by the Lannister army yet. In the lower areas, many a house still bore the marks of fire, while other were slowly being rebuilt… in wood, as always. 

A score of gold cloaks was waiting for them on the pier to escort them to the Red Keep. 

“My lord, my lady,” the captain of the little troop greeted them. “His Grace wishes to see you in the castle as soon as possible.” 

“Lead the way, Captain.” 

Two horses had been prepared as well, one a peaceful grey palfrey for Selyse. With the noble guests on horseback, the gold cloaks formed a double line and marched up the streets towards Aegon’s Hill. They only found cobblestones midway to the Keep, Stannis noticed in a low voice. Robert could have at least thought to rekindle the laying of stones in the streets of his capitol… It would look cleaner. 

Soon enough the massive shape and the high, pale red walls of the royal fortress loomed before them, the great iron-studded gates wide open to make way for the group. Robert had begun to get rid of the dragon sculptures that bracketed the massive double doors, something that Stannis appreciated. He saw enough of those stone beasts in his own fief. 

The Baratheon spouses were not greeted in the bailey by Robert himself, due to protocol, but by the Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy. His hair had begun to whiten, Selyse noted, but the man still stood straight and proud, certain of his duty in his shining enamelled armour. 

“My lord, I bid you welcome in this castle. My lady,” he added, bowing lightly before Selyse. 

“Ser Barristan. Do we have some time to change into more appropriate clothes before meeting with His Grace?” 

“Of course, my lord. I will lead you to the apartments that have been prepared for you.” 

They crossed long, windowless corridors, then small cloistered yards, and climbed several stairs before reaching the highborn guests’ quarters. Their windows opened not on the streets but on an enclosed garden bordered by a cloister covered in tiles. At least the foul stench of the city did not reach them in that enclosure strewn with lavender bushes and climbing roses. 

They had just enough time to wash the dust from the trip and change clothes before Ser Barristan came back to knock on their door. 

“After you, ser.” 

They once more walked over a long distance, Selyse considering that a ball of yarn would be quite a useful accessory in this maze worthy of the ruins on Lorath. At last, they arrived on the doorstep to the royal chambers. No sooner had Ser Barristan knocked on the door that Robert’s resounding voice rang under the vaulted ceiling, ordering them to enter. 

“Stannis! It was high time you showed your frozen face! I was beginning to believe you had gotten lost on the way here!” 

Stannis rolled his eyes and refrained from replying that his galley had sailed as fast as humanely possible. He simply bowed before his elder brother while Selyse dove in a somewhat stiff curtsey. She knew Robert’s manners well after two years in the Baratheon family; he would never miss an opportunity to remind his younger brother that he was second in everything, without ever considering the consequences, but after some discussions with the maester to pass time as she recovered, Selyse had her own opinion on the question. If Robert had "accidentally" dropped his training sword in his brother’s head, Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana would have sent him up to his room for a week at least, if Cressen had not found another punishment faster. And the gods only knew what Princess Rhaelle would have done had she been still alive to witness that. 

“Come and see your first nephew! He’s a strong lad, but gods, he is loud…” 

Stannis followed his brother without any enthusiasm, Selyse trotting behind him. Newborns had never held much interest for him, starting with Renly. 

The queen’s bedroom was a red and gold birdcage, filled with more or less distant cousins who busied themselves around Cersei, chatted together, gave orders to the servants as if they were still in Casterly Rock… 

For now, the heir lied in his crib, though he was awake. A thin blond down covered his head and his eyes, when Selyse could see them, had the same emerald hue as his mother’s. The lady was singularly reluctant to allow the little prince Joffrey – a name from the West rather than the Storm – to be held by his uncle. 

“Charming,” Stannis murmured as he observed the baby in his arms. “So... Lannister.” 

Cersei cast him a sharp glance that almost caused Selyse to shiver. _Show some caution, for the Mother’s sake! Her lord father exterminated two whole families without batting an eye…_ Robert did not seem to have heard the comment. In fact, he did not give the impression that he cared much for the babe. He would rather keep staring at the nurse who was waiting to do her job. As soon as her services for the little prince would not be required anymore, she likely risked to find herself with a royal bastard in her belly, just like the chambermaid Robert had put in his bed on the very eve of his own wedding night. The maid and the boy she had birthed had been both expelled from the castle, but another one-time mistress had found shelter in Storm’s End with her own bastard. Everybody there gushed over the child’s resemblance with Renly. 

* * 

If only it had only been a simple matter of a family visit… But when it was about the first heir of the new dynasty, they had to celebrate the event in the most blatant way they could, by summoning all the nobility, high and low, in Westeros. And Stannis could not avoid it, though he would have widely preferred sharing a good, steaming fish stew with Davos and his family. 

The Red Keep’s cooks had overdone themselves to celebrate the birth of the first Baratheon prince. Once again, the supper consisted of seven courses, all decorated with symbols and ribbons in the two royal Houses’ colours. Sugary treats dominated that feast, much to Stannis’ irritation, when he had never been fond of confections. Selyse, for her part, would not say no to a few. Robert scarfed everything down without discrimination, without mentioning the unwatered wine cups that kept being served before him. His younger brother would rather keep a cool head and clear ideas, particularly when all the queen’s kin seemed to have gathered in the castle. Her uncles, her aunt, her numerous cousins… the Lannisters looked just as fruitful as the Freys. 

If she had felt somewhat petty, Selyse would have found it amusing to see the Crown Prince wince and cry each time Robert put a hand on him. But what worried her most, as well as her husband, was the increased influence the birth of a son would give the Lannister queen. Her family already held a strong position in the realm, and the arrival of this child would allow Lord Tywin to slip a few more demands, such as the introduction of some new councillors in his pay in the king’s entourage. If things carried on like that, Robert would soon become a mere puppet in the hands of the ruling House of the West. Lord Tywin did not need to be asked twice to grant loans to the Crown, that would be then paid off with interest rates no doubt far above the legal limit. 

To sum it up, though officially holder of a seat in the king’s Small Council as Master of Ships, Stannis was only too happy to leave the capitol to sail back to Dragonstone and supervise the rebuilding of a part of the fleet. Trees were already coming from the Riverlands and White Harbor, and sloshed around in one of the harbour’s docks, waiting to be cut according to the carpenters’ templates. He would also need to travel to Oldtown to survey the local shipyards - and make sure that no Targaryen supporters were hatching some plot in that bastion of the deposed dynasty’s traditions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to all the people that read, kudoed or commented this story; that's quite the warm welcome you gave me :)


	6. Elia, Stannis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this one took a bit more time, as apparently COVID gave me some nice ophtalmic migraines as a parting gift, and there are days when using a computer is not advised... (sigh)

Her brother worried her. Oberyn never remained in the same place for long, that was nothing new, but what, for the Seven’s sake, was he doing in Essos, the princess wondered. Officially, the second prince of Dorne travelled with his new mistress to visit the Free Cities in some kind of honeymoon on the wrong side of the sheets. Oberyn usually growing tired of his women as quickly as the various projects he undertook, such as forging a maester’s chain, one would see how long that passion would last…

Nonetheless, Elia suspected that this journey hid other goals. Her younger brother had never made a mystery of his opinion about the new king, and the fact that Dorne should have received compensations for their losses, not even mentioning the indignity of seeing the princesses detained as hostages. She also knew, thanks to some coded letters, what plans their elder Doran was making for the future, and feared that Oberyn would in truth look for Aerys’ two surviving children to offer them his services. Viserys, who styled himself king and the third of his name, and Daenerys had stayed in Braavos for a while, then their protector Willem Darry had died, and they had been forced to leave their house, then the city, wandering from one Valyrian colony to the other. Last she knew, they were living somewhere in Tyrosh. Elia did not worry about the magistrates; none of them would want to endanger the juicy trading contracts that already tied their cities to the Seven Kingdoms, not even counting the ones Lord Stannis was studying when he had some free time. He had observed the congestion of King’s Landing harbours and was thinking about founding a new trading centre on the eastern coast, for the Crown’s benefice as much as his own. 

Oberyn and Doran, however… if the latter seemed inconsistent and ready to spit fire and scorn as much as a dragon, the former was patient and conniving. Dorne would have its revenge against the Baratheons and Lannisters, sooner or later, and the two Targaryen princelings would doubtlessly feature in those plans. Viserys was the same age as Princess Arianne, after all, and Elia could imagine very well how that point would play in the equation. 

And if Oberyn really created a sellsword company as he had written in his last letter, it would bring the fallen dragon prince a most welcome support. 

She sighed and threw said paper into the fire. There was already so much to do to pacify the inhabitants of Dragonstone, quite peeved that Stannis had begun to close the brothels on their island, starting with the most flea-ridden, to give the illusion that he cared before everything else for the physical health of his people and the sailors who dropped anchor at Dragonstone. Smart, but they would eventually notice that the other establishments were closing as well. 

* * 

The following year was spent carrying out his naval projects, Davos on his heels to guide him in the world of workers and dockers on the piers of Oldtown, a city that suited Stannis’ taste much better than King’s Landing. The place was cleaner, better managed and organized, its urban masterplan regularly revised along its long centuries of existence. 

The new Master of Ships had it easy using the duties of his charge to avoid coming back too often in the capitol, specially when Robert organized a small feast to celebrate the birth of the first daughter and second child of his friend Stark, named Sansa like one of her distant grandaunts, and gifted, as it was reported, with her mother’s copper hair. 

He still needed to show himself at the Council to report on the progress of the fleet, much to his dismay. If one excepted Lord Arryn, Stannis did not like much the men surrounding his brother. Keeping Varys as Master of Whisperers was not a clever plan, in his opinion, but Robert had, as often, forgiven to the former enemy, and seemed to have turned him, if not into a friend, at least into an ally. As for Pycelle, Stannis almost felt compelled to wash his hands each time he crossed paths with him, particularly after the old man had begun to give him advice about the best way to beget sons, a rather poorly-thought allusion to Selyse’s second miscarriage. A girl, according to Cressen, who had lacked about five moons to be born on time. Once again Selyse had turned to Elia in order to find some comfort, while the princess tightened an iron hand on the staff in the fortress to prevent them from ever mentioning a curse or a divine punishment. 

The political and military situation of the realm would durably distract Stannis from his domestic grief, however. 

* * 

For some reason, Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands, found himself displeased with the government in King’s Landing, and had decided to be crowned King of Rock and Salt, and to revive his people’s Old Way. As in piracy, plundering and rapt. He began to stretch his legs, so to speak, by attacking some fishermen’s villages on the coast of the Westerlands, burning their cottages, taking the women captive and killing the men who resisted. The Lannisters lost their fleet even before they could send it out to fight. Thus remained the Redwyne’s and the Hightower’s, as well as the royal squadron, still under constitution, and located on the wrong side of Westeros on top of that. Robert wanted to go and fight as fast as possible, as usual with him. Stannis had to explain that moving the fleets to the Western Sea would take some time, before sending ravens to his fief and his vassals’ islands to demand their immediate assistance. _Let’s see who answers the call._

Then Stannis announced his intention to directly command the ships he had coming from Dragonstone. 

Redwyne balanced for a moment. 

“You intend to… fight on the first line, my lord?” 

“What better way to lead the men and incite them to follow?” 

The other man emitted an embarrassed titter. 

“Should you fall in battle, Robert will have my head,” he pointed out. 

“I doubt he would remember to ask for it. But if it can reassure you, I will put on parchment that it was my idea, and mine only.” 

This time, Redwyne burst into genuine laugher. 

“I am not against such a thing! I do not believe that my head would make a nice ornament for the walls of the Red Keep.” 

Stannis snorted, which could pass, for him, as a laugh. “I will do my best to avoid you such a sad fate, my lord,” he promised. “More seriously, we will have to send a raven to Velaryon so that he brings the rest of his own fleet post haste.” 

Redwyne muttered something along the lines of the current Lord of the Tides not being the Sea Snake, but his ships would be nonetheless necessary to reinforce the fleet already gathered before Oldtown. 

* * 

Three weeks after that conversation, the ships he had asked for all anchored in the harbour of Oldtown. Velaryon had needed to be reminded twice of his duty but could not disobey in too blatant a way to his liege lord’s orders. They finally had enough units to attack, and not too soon, as the shores of the North fell victim to the Ironborn raiders’ incursions as well. Deprived of a fleet as the Northmen were since Brandon the Burner, they found themselves poorly equipped against lightening-fast raids led on isolated villages. It would be high time to have some words with Lord Stark on that regard. 

The last reports located part of the Greyjoy fleet close to the Shield Islands, thus Stannis gave the order to send some scouts under the guise of fishing boats, while having his troops raise anchor. The spies came back after a few days: Victarion Greyjoy had indeed massed most of his ships near the islands, where he besieged several watch towers in order to establish a new base there for his vessels. Of his brother Euron, not a word, while Balon prepared his troops on Pyke. There was no way he would be given any time to embark them. 

Stannis ordered to send a few ships toward the Rock, via coastal navigation, so that the Lannister soldiers could cross to the islands, while most of the fleet he had gathered would directly face Victarion Greyjoy. He knew very well that he still lacked experience in spite of the battles led against the Targaryen navy, but he dared hope the other commanders would not try and betray him right in the middle of a fight. 

A quick observation of the Redwynes showed him that he would not have to fear such a thing. A common enemy and a taste for sailing erased many grudges, at least during the duration of the campaign, he noticed. Soldiers from the Stormlands and the Reach would fight side by side against the Ironborns without ever trying to break formation nor reignite the rancour of the civil war again. 

* * 

The first contact happened along the Shield Islands, on a calm, sunny morning. The royal fleet then crossed paths with a group of ten or so pirate ships sailing south, no doubt to try and attack the coast of the Reach. 

The flat-bottomed ships of the Ironborns worked well close to the coast and in the estuaries, or to sail upriver, but they somewhat lacked stability in open sea. Furthermore, the longships were faster than the galleys but they did not possess the necessary mass to sink them in case of collision, a fact the royal crews used to their advantage. Their ships rammed several of the pirate boats and sank them before a single grappling iron could be thrown. 

In spite of that, two of the Ironborn captains managed to cling to one of the galleys and launch an attack, and Stannis had two more ships sent towards them to destroy the intruders. Then he had other matters to attend, as his own galley had just been boarded. He crossed his fingers so that his training would be enough, and ran into the fight. 

Axe and mace were better suited to fighting on a deck always in movement than the sword. A too long blade led to unbalance, a possibly lethal issue when facing Ironborns accustomed since childhood to work at sea. Furthermore, they obviously preferred the axe over other weapons. Their fingers made tempting targets when they gripped the rail to climb on board, and the ropes of their grappling irons even more. 

Among shouts and the clash of steel, the issue of those scouts was treated quite quickly. Velaryon’s great galleys had manoeuvred to surround them and cut them from any opportunity to flight, then the noose tightened and the small longships were sunk one after the other by the galleys’ ram or the scorpions, the only survivors from their crews remaining on the king’s ships. 

Once those men sent in the hold, Stannis ordered them to be firmly interrogated, though he personally disliked the practice. He needed intelligence on the Greyjoy fleet, its numbers, where it was, who would command the ships… 

He got them after one very long day, at the end of which he was only too glad to see the deck of his ship and the sun again. 

Most of the Greyjoy troops had not left their harbour yet. Only a few units harassed the boats daring to sail between the Iron Islands and the western coasts of the continent, either north or south of the Neck. Still, the Ironborns were smart enough not to risk disembarking and exploring the lands – or rather the swamps – of House Reed. All kinds of strange tales circulated about the little lord of the Crannogmen and his misty domain. Stannis was of a mind to not go and attack the kraken in its lair, but rather to bring him in the heart of the Shield Islands, properly fortified, and to ensnare him in a tight spot from where he would not extract himself. For once, Redwyne and his captains all agreed. 

Several spies disguised as fishermen left looking for more intelligence, while some sellswords changed side, enticed by the shine of Lannister gold, and came to tell the captains of the royal fleet many interesting stories. Realizing that he had far less time ahead than he had imagined, Stannis requisitioned all the ships and boats present on the Shield Islands so he would have sufficient numbers to oppose to à Balon Greyjoy, or rather to his younger brother Victarion, who acted as admiral for his brother and liege – a bit like Stannis himself was doing for Robert. His fleet offered quite a mismatched aspect, some units dating back to Jaehaerys II’s reign, but as long as they managed to sink Ironborns… 

* * 

Greyjoy swallowed the hook with even more enthusiasm than his family’s emblem. It took less than a week for his ships to show in the passes between the islands. It had at least left some time for the royal galleys to unload part of their ballista and catapults, and for the sailors to install them on the cliffs looming over the narrow channels. 

In spite of his lengthy study of the local maps and the training of the crews, Stannis felt nervous as in the distance the Ironborns’ horns announced the enemy’s approach. Then the feeling vanished when the dark sails appeared at last. A whistle blowing saw the flags up the main mast of his ship. When Redwyne did the same, the servants at the catapults would begin to fire. They just needed Greyjoy to progress a bit further in the bottleneck between the islands… just a bit more… 

The Arbor banner went up as well, and the first stones flew towards the enemy fleet. Victarion Greyjoy’s flagship escaped them, but at least three others following it received projectiles, one of them losing a mast and another her starboard rail. 

Besides Stannis, his first mate, a sailor from Dragonstone, tapped his foot on the boards of the deck. 

“We’ll need more than that to calm them, m’lord,” he said, munching a dried blade of grass. “I see fifty or so that are running for us.” 

“I know,” Stannis assured him. “We will not shot just one volley. Prepare the firepots!” he yelled to the sailors behind him, while the signal was transmitted to the rest of the fleet. 

The clay pots were filled with a mix of pitch, hemp fuses and sulphur that would be ignited before being thrown at the enemy via small catapults. The precision was somewhat lacking, and some would end at the bottom of the sea, but no one had found a way to train seagulls to drop them on their opponents yet. 

After that, the time for chatting was gone. The first ships arrived in range for the catapults on board. The servants loaded the first pots, lit the fuses, then cleared the line of fire. Long trails of sparks stretched in the sky while the pots flew towards the first lines of battle. Stannis saw the orange impacts against the black hulls, a few plumes of smoke… He ordered the servants to keep on firing, and readied his axe, his fingers tightening nervously on the shaft of his weapon. A few more minutes before contact… 

The impact made him stagger. Sharps cracks on his left told him that _Fury_ and the longship that had hit her had both lost some oars. Then grappling irons were thrown and he temporarily forgot about future repairs to take care of the current issues. That was, a pack of Ironborns boarding _Fury_. 

As he quickly found out, the Ironborns fought as if survival held no importance for them, as he parried and hit, Stannis wondered if the preachment of their wandering priests were truly the only thing use to fanaticise them, or if they did also use some decoction of mind-altering seaweed. Or they might have spent too much time underwater during their "consecration", and their brain was now feeling the after effects. Anyway, Stannis had to shove several of them into piles of ropes or against barrels to free himself, then one of those madmen rushed toward him like a bull in a fighting pit in Pentos. He threw himself flat on the deck, just in time to avoid the impact while the man, carried away by his momentum, passed him and crashed against the rail. Stannis leapt to his feet, grabbed him by the belt and sent him overboard without any question. 

“That’s all they deserve!” his first mate cackled, before jumping back into the fray. 

The battle slowly reduced to a circle a few steps wide around him, its rayon the length of the axe that Stannis wielded. A blade clawed at his vambrace, another scratched his hand, he brought his weapon down on the back of an Ironborn wearing chainmail… 

With a thunderous crack, a Velaryon galley rammed into the ship hooked to Fury and the sailors rushed to cut the ropes of the grappling irons still tying them to the future wreckage. Once freed, _Fury_ manoeuvred to find another target while the reduced distance between the ships allowed the royalist crews to throw heavier projectiles, such as stones and barrels of pitch. Then they began to pay the Ironborns back in kind, throwing their own grappling irons to board the enemy. Stannis followed the flow, leaping onto the deck of a longship equipped with a ram shaped like a narwhal’s horn. _Nothing original, but efficient…_

Once more, he lost all notion of time, stopping only to have signals sent to the other units of his fleet. Nor Velaryon nor the others tried to backstab him. 

A stone crashed on the aft deck, launching splinters several inches long in all directions, and often into the barely protected legs and arms of the sailors around. Then barrels of burning pitch flew before crashing on the Ironborn ships, setting fire to the rigging and the sails, which led to a wavering among the enemy troops, some men leaving the fight to put out the spreading fires. 

Then, progressively, the uproar quieted. The clash of weapons decreased, from the lack of fighters. Great sprays of water still sprang here and there when a hatch broke under the pressure, injured men called for help, shattered masts fell with an ominous creaking… Stannis shook his head and looked around. The royal banner still flew over _Fury_ and... and on a ship with a prow decorated with a bronze kraken that had lost two arms in the battle. They had won? Their plan had worked? 

The delighted faces of his sailors confirmed it, and for the first time, his men dared pat him on the back or the shoulder for a job well done. He returned the compliments a bit stiffly and hesitantly, progressively relaxing as the reality of their victory was finally taking root in his mind. Even Redwyne was raising his fist and cheering. 

Then they had to fish their prisoners out of the cold water. 

Victarion Greyjoy looked rather ragged, completely drenched, his beard hanging limp under the weight of the water it had absorbed. The ropes that tied his ankles and wrists, as well as the disappearance of his armour, did not help, of course. He would be heavily ransomed, that one, for all the destructions he had caused. 

However, the Crow’s eye had never taken part in those fights, and Aeron Greyjoy had been lost during the battle, most likely gone overboard and drowned under the weight of his armour. Not a big loss, Stannis thought, though another ransom or an execution would not have displeased him at all. 

“And now, let’s sail for Pyke.”


	7. Eddard, Davos, Stannis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, to let you know: my computer has been damaged yesterday and was brought for repairs, which means I won't see it for at least a week, and I'm posting this from the office (misuse of resources, I know). I'll do my best to avoid too long a delay for posting the next chapter.

He gazed upon the smoking remains of the fishing village under the castle of Pyke without really seeing them, his mind drifting far away. He had left a pregnant Catelyn in Winterfell, and prayed that everything went well, that he could come back home before the birth of their third child. He had always deeply lamented being absent when Robb had been born. He also kept his fingers crossed so that the household and the lords who had not been called on the battlefield would not make things more difficult for the Lady of Winterfell. There were still some who turned up their nose at a Southron wife, which began to seriously irritate the yet quiet and calm Lord Stark. At least Lord Manderly would offer a constant support to Catelyn, as he was still considered as a foreigner after his family had been settled in the North for several centuries (some did not forgive him either for being a successful trader, and thus the wealthiest lord in the province...).

Before him, the royal soldiers lined up the survivors of the attack on the remains of the broken down path that led to the castle while Robert tapped his foot on the ground impatiently. 

“Is that old seagull going to leave his nest, or do we need to demolish another of his towers?” the king groused while staring at the dungeon, the only place the Greyjoys still held. 

“It is an action to consider,” Lord Stannis replied from behind them. 

The two brothers had taken part in the fights on Pyke after the ships hired by the Lannisters had ferried the Western troops, soon joined by the rest of the army. 

There had been strict orders to leave the non-fighters alone and, in general, women and children had been left in peace. The men, however, even injured or sick, had not been so lucky. The only ones who had escaped the slaughter had either been at sea at the time or inside the fortress. 

At last, as the drizzle slowly extinguished the last fires in the lower part of the city, the gates of the damaged castle opened and Balon Greyjoy appeared. Behind him, Eddard caught sight of a group of soldiers and servants, who remained inside, waiting for Robert’s decision. The king straightened to his full height as the vanquished rebel approached. The man had lost two of his sons, one of his brothers – another being captive - his fleet and part of his people. It remained to be seen if Robert also intended to have him lose his head. 

Greyjoy walked slowly, as if to delay the moment of his submission, but in the end, he yielded nonetheless, and bent the knee before the king. 

“I admit defeat,” he ground out, “and surrender the Iron Islands to your mercy.” 

The short-lived monarch seemed to relax minutely, but Robert was not done with him yet. 

“I will leave your stubborn head where it is, but I do not intend to leave this place without a guaranty. You still have a son, I believe; he will ensure your… good behaviour.” 

At those words, Greyjoy briskly raised his grey eyes on the king, though he said nothing. 

“He will learn good manners among us. Ned,” he added, turning towards his old friend, “your boys are about the same age as his last, right?” 

Eddard nodded. 

“They are younger, but not by much. He might appreciate not being the baby brother anymore,” he replied a bit distractedly, wondering instead how Catelyn would react to the news. 

The boy arrived soon, a bundle in hand and followed by a servant carrying a small traveling chest, his cheeks still smeared with tears. Eddard tried not to think about the poor mother who had already lost two sons and saw a third leave without much hope of ever coming back. 

Young Theon had probably been admonished before his departure, as he bowed stiffly before Robert, then threw a fearful glance at the Warden of the North. Eddard tried to offer him a smile as reassuring as possible and held a hand out. The boy cast him a suspicious glare but accepted to follow him without making a fuss, the servant on their heels. 

The Lord of Winterfell prayed fervently so that Balon would never rebel again, since he had no wish to ever use Ice against a child. 

* * 

Davos was pacing on a damaged pier in Lordsport, waiting for his lord. Around him, sailors were busy repairing sails or ropes, and a few nobles in colourful tabards cast him glances that were curious at best. They would have to get used to his onion no matter what… 

At last, he saw Stannis arrive, walking down the street in long strides, slapping his gloves against his palm with glaring annoyance. When he came closer, the bandage around his left arm became more obvious. 

“You should have let me come along,” Davos grumbled. “I would have watched your back.” 

“You already have four sons at home,” Stannis countered. “I do not intend to make them orphans.” 

“Oh... thank you…” 

“And you had more than enough to do with transporting our troops, anyway.” 

_Quite true._

“ _Fury_ is ready to sail at once, my lord. We managed to recover a few oars on local galleys to equip her. Where are we headed?” 

“We’ll set sail directly for Dragonstone,” Stannis stated. “My brother wants to go to Lannisport to organize a great tourney and celebrate his victory properly – with the Lannisters’ gold, of course. If you wish to go, we can drop you off on the way.” 

Davos smiled. 

“No thank you, my lord. I’m quite in a hurry to go home. I miss Marya and the boys.” 

“Very good. So let’s prepare our departure, and without delay.” 

In spite of his sailors’ diligence, Stannis still kept grumbling until they cast off. Davos let him; it was his way to calm down after a battle. 

In Robert’s stead, he said, he would have gladly cut Balon Greyjoy’s head, also taken his daughter as hostage to marry her to a lord of the green lands, and left the on the Iron Islands fight each other, preferably with an axe in hand, to decide who would sit the Seastone Chair. It would have granted the rest of the realm several months, if not several years, of relative peace, not counting the time required by the Ironborns to rebuild their fleet. Trees were few and far between on the Iron Islands and nobody in the realm would have accepted to sell them wood, except at a prohibitive price. 

Stannis thus slipped this idea to Lord Jon Arryn when they made a stop at King’s Landing a fortnight later, which the Hand put in practice, though not as sharply as the Master of Ships would have wished. Well, it was better than nothing, Davos calculated. 

Furthermore, they had ransomed their captives expensively, emptying the coffers of House Greyjoy and their vassals for years. Part of that money had been used to pay for a tourney to celebrate the victorious end of the war - luckily, Jon Arryn managed to limit the expense – as Robert had demanded, and the rest landed into the Crown’s pockets. On top of that, the fortifications raised along the coasts were demolished and razed to the ground, leaving only the castles of the noble Houses sharing the islands that erosion made a bit smaller with each passing year. One day or another, the Greyjoys’ fortress on Pyke would end in the sea. If only that day could arrive soon… 

* * 

They arrived on Dragonstone to find, much to Stannis’ astonishment, Selyse with a well-rounded belly, and beyond the four moons that until then marked the term of her pregnancies. Within three months at most, if everything went fine, his wife would birth their first child and heir. Cressen assured him that everything was going well, and all the ladies in the castle sewed and embroidered clothes and blankets for the future child while Elia discreetly acted to relieve some of the burden from Selyse, taking part of the household in charge. Naturally, Selyse was convinced she was carrying a son, and did all she could to ensure him a birth without a hitch, calling Cressen to her help. 

The septa in charge of the lady’s spiritual life protested, arguing that the fights in the birthing bed should be managed by midwives and septas alone, no man having ever brought a child into the world. 

“And you have?” Cressen finally snapped back. “Didn’t you swear a vow of chastity? I supervised Lady Cassana’s three deliveries, and she never felt any worse for it, nor the married servants who received my care.” 

The septa went back to her prayers with a pinched face. Stannis did nothing to pacify her offended importance, as constant prayers and lectures furiously got on his nerves. If the septa wanted to make herself useful, there were children needing to get their reading lessons in the lower city. He sent her there on the following day. 

He then buckled down to the task of making his island a little less dependent on imported food from the continent. 

The few patches of land which had not been covered in molten basalt proved remarkably fertile though barely cultivated, the population of the island more often dedicating themselves to fishing. This being said, the rubbish from this little industry did wonders to turn almost barren sectors into areas relatively fit for the culture of small productions such as herbs, flowers and creepers which would not suffer from the wind. The islanders should develop a taste for strawberries and squashes… and perhaps cucumbers as well. 

Those tasks spread over several months, during which the news came that Lady Stark had given birth to a second daughter, named Arya. Rumours also arrived from the capital that Cersei had suffered a miscarriage, while Robert was supposed to have gotten a noble girl from the Reach with child, a Crane according to the most insistent version. One more bastard… 

All these tales of births and babes were forgotten when the heir to Dragonstone decided to show up. 

As usual in those situations, Stannis was left outside to pace the corridor back and forth. For one hour, then two. That lengthened into four, five, six… 

The evening was growing darker when Cressen emerged from the room while wiping his hands, looking quite satisfied. Stannis relaxed almost imperceptibly. The maester would look far less serene if something had gone wrong. 

“A girl, my lord, healthy, with two eyes, two ears and the proper number of fingers and toes.” 

“Good, very good,” Stannis replied with some distraction, no doubt caused by his numerous round trips along the antechamber. “And Lady Selyse?” 

“All things considered, she fares rather well, my lord,” Cressen assured. “She will need some rest, of course, but in a fortnight she will be able to leave her bed without incident. Do you wish to see your daughter?” 

Stannis barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Of course he wanted to see his daughter. Some might have complained she had not been born a boy, but after Selyse’s previous miscarriages, a living child was almost unexpected. . 

When Cressen put the baby in his arms, the first impression Stannis had was of a small creased face crowned with fine black hair that made it look like a tiny hedgehog. Unlike for Renly’s birth, he did not feel disturbed at all by this little presence, and in no way in a hurry to give the child back to her nurse. 

“Do you have a name for her, my lord?” Selyse inquired, her voice hoarse after screaming for hours. “Cassana, mayhaps?” 

“No, I do not think she should have to carry such a weight.” 

Remembering the Essosi legends that his grandmother had told him once, he decided to pick something more original. 

“Shireen. It sounds good.” 

He finally handed the babe to the wetnurse, thanked Selyse and wished her a good rest, then went to his solar to pen a letter to Robert and another to Renly to tell them about the arrival of their niece. Strange to think that Renly, barely eleven years old, had become an uncle. He would probably found that rather weird as well.


End file.
